Chapter Eight Fathers Don't Belong Here.

“Zarah, have you called your dad yet?" my mother asked me.

“No."

“I think you should call him and tell him how you're doing."

I rolled my eyes. I doubt he's sitting at home worrying about it,"

"Still."

"Well, have you made Amir call him?" I countered.

“No, I haven't," she said, her tone level. "Your dad and Amir are about to spend two weeks together looking at colleges. You, on the other hand, won't get to see him until the end of summer.

Why did she have to be so reasonable?Everything was that way with her. My mother was the only person I knew who could have a reasonable divorce.

My mother got up and handed me the phone. "Call your father," she said, leaving the room. She always left the room when I called my father, like she was giving ne privacy. As if there were some secrets I needed to tell my father that I couldn't tell him in front of her.

I didn't call him. I put the phone back in its cradle. He should be the one calling me; not the other way around. He was the father; I was just the kid. And anyway, dads didn't belong in the summer house. Not my father and not Mr. Kareem. Sure, they'd come to visit, but it wasn't their place. They didn't belong to it. Not the way we all did, the mothers and us kids.

We were playing cards outside on the porch, and my mother and Leila were drinking margaritas and playing their own card game. The sun was starting to go down, and soon the mothers would have to go inside and boil corn and hot dogs. But not yet. First they played cards.

"Freyah, why do you call my mom Beck when everyone else calls her Leila?" Malik wanted to know. He and my brother, Amir, were a team, and they were losing. Card games bored Malik, and he was always looking for something more interesting to do, to talk about.

"Because her maiden name is Beck, my mother explained, grinding out a cigarette. They only smoked when they were together, so it was a special occasion. My mother said smoking with Leila made her feel young again. I said it would shorten her life span by years but she waved off my worries and called me a doomsdayer.

"What's a maiden name?" Malik asked. My brother tapped Malik's hand of cards to get him back into the game, but Malik ignored him.

"It's a lady's name before she gets married, dipwad,” said Khalil.

"Don't call him dipwad,Khalil”. Leila said automatically, sorting through her hand.

But why does she have to change her name at all?”Malik wondered.

"She doesn't. I didn't. My name is Freyah Dunne, same as the day I was born. Nice, huh?" My mother liked to feel superior to Leila for not changing her name. "After all, why should a woman have to change name for a man? She shouldn't."

"Freyah, please shut up," said Leila, throwing a few cards down onto the table."Gin.”

My mother sighed, and threw her cards down too.

“I don't want to play gin anymore. Let's play something else. Let's play go fish with these guys."

"Sore loser," Leila said.

“Mom, we're not playing go fish. We're playing hearts, and you can't play because you always try to cheat," I said. Khalil was my partner, and I was pretty sure we were going to win. I had picked him on purpose. Khalil was good at winning. He was the fastest swimmer, the best boogie boarder, and he always, always won at cards.

Leila clapped her hands together and laughed. Freyah, this girl is you all over again."

My mother said, "No, Zarah's her father's daughter," and they exchanged this secret look that made me want to say, "What, what?" But I knew my mother would never say. She was a secret-keeper, always had been. And I guessed I did look like my father: I had his eyes that turned up at the corners, a little girl version of his nose, his chin that jutted out. All I had of my mother was her hands.

Then the moment was over and Leila smiled at me and said, "You're absolutely right, Zarah . Your mother does cheat. She's always cheated at hearts. Cheaters never prosper, children. 

Leila was always calling us children, but the thing was, I didn't even mind. Normally I would. But the way Leila said it, it didn't seem like a bad thing, not like we were small and babyish. Instead it sounded like we had our whole lives in front of us. 

Mr. Kareem would pop in throughout the summer, an occasional weekend and always the first week of August. He was a banker, and getting away for any real length of time was, according to him, simply impossible. And anyway, it was better without him there, when it was just us. When Mr. Kareem came to town, which wasn't very often, I stood up a little straighter. Everyone did. Well, except Leila and my mother, of course. The funny thing was, my mother had known Mr. Kareem for as long as Leila had the three of them had gone to college together, and their school was small.

Leila always told me to call Mr. Kareem "Jamal," but I could never do it. It just didn't sound right. Mr. Kareem was what sounded right, so that's what I called him, and that's what Malik called him too. I think something about him inspired people to call him that, and not just kids, either. I think he preferred it that way.

He'd arrive at dinnertime on Friday night, and we'd wait for him. Leila would fix his favorite drink and have it ready, ginger and Maker's Mark. My mother teased her for waiting on him, but Leila didn't mind. My mother teased Mr. Kareem, too, in fact. He teased her right back. Maybe teasing isn't the right word. It was more like bickering. They bickered a lot, but they smiled, too. It was funny: My mother and father had rarely argued, but they hadn't smiled that much either.